


Daddy Lessons

by Syrum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 500 Words Challenge, Abuse, Bad Parent John Winchester, Drabble, Homophobia, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, I don't actually hate John, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester Being an Asshole, M/M, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Violence, this just sorta happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: John finds out about Sam's relationship with Gabriel - he doesn't take it well.  At all.Three more kicks, one to his chest and the other two to his shins as Sam tried in vain to curl further into the tight ball of nothing that he was trying to become.  He hurt, everything hurt, and he wondered where Dean had gone, why he wasn’t there to help stop this.Except, Dean meant Castiel, which meant- no, Dean couldn’t be here.  It wasn’t safe.





	Daddy Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> So the line 'you'd rather fuck it than kill it' popped into my head and then...this happened.
> 
> I don't actually hate John, for the record. I think he's generally not a great person, just not as bad as in this so...yeah, there we have it. Oops?
> 
> Title is from 'Daddy Lessons' by Beyonce, courtesy of [superbaturalross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superbaturalross) because I am bad at them...

“If it makes you feel any better,”  Sam’s voice was hoarse from one well-aimed kick that had collided with his windpipe, and really it was a surprise he could speak at all.  Possibly shouldn’t be, should have kept his mouth shut considering the look John was levelling at him. He coughed, shuddering at the pain it brought to his cracked ribs, and stared down his father from his position on the motel floor.  “He’s an angel, they’re genderless.”

“You think that makes this okay?”  John advanced, a coiled viper biding its time, ready to lash out once more and Sam flinched at the crunch of broken glass beneath a heavy steel capped boot.  “You think this is _just_ about the fact that you’re making ‘happy families’ with another man?”  A kick to the stomach and Sam bit down his cry, curling in on himself as John stepped away once more, pacing slowly before his prone son.  “Oh I’m plenty pissed about that too, mark my words boy - we’ll be _fixing_ that.”

“Then wh-”  Three more kicks, one to his chest and the other two to his shins as Sam tried in vain to curl further into the tight ball of nothing that he was trying to become.  He hurt, everything hurt, and he wondered where Dean had gone, why he wasn’t there to help _stop_ this.

Except, Dean meant Castiel, which meant- no, Dean couldn’t be here.  Neither could Cas.  It wasn’t safe.

“ _Do not backchat me, boy!_ ”  Spittle landed across Sam’s bruised face, but the expected kick to follow it up didn’t come.  “You never did know when to shut your damn mouth.” A huff, and John was moving away, feet vanishing from sight for a few long moments.  When he returned, his voice had taken on a sad sort of lamenting tone, the one Sam remembered from being seven years old and terrified enough of the man to have actually wet himself.  “I don’t know where I went wrong; I raised you right, taught you how to kill those soulless bastards.” John had grabbed another beer from the side, twisting the cap off and downing half before he continued.  “And now look at you.” The laugh that tumbled from his lips was not a kind one, and a calloused hand buried itself in Sam’s hair, lifting him half off the floor with a pained cry. “You’d rather _fuck_ one of those monsters than kill it.”

“Dad-”

“But don’t you worry, Sammy.”  John’s voice had turned soft, deceptively syrupy and it sent a shiver of dread down Sam’s spine.  The hand holding him up let go, and Sam tumbled back to the floor with a grunt, staring up at his father in horror as the man drew a scrap of paper with a familiar summoning sigil from within the confines of his coat pocket and began copying it out on the wooden motel floor, the silver glint of an archangel blade in his left hand.  “Daddy will fix it.”


End file.
